Sentiment and Wishful Thinking
by The-Shepherd's-Daughter
Summary: They say sentimentality aboard a ship-of-the-line is damning for any man. Death and destruction follow everyone in the teeth of war, oblivious of rank or privilege. But sometimes, regardless of every self-preserving conviction to the opposite, a man comes aboard that deserves every bit of such feeling - even from the captain himself. (A&E-verse short story)
1. Chapter I: Valor or Mere Foolhardiness

**Author's Note:** A year of procrastination and one complete rewrite later, I am now publishing this - my first Hornblower piece. Be gentle with me, as despite loving these characters fiercely, I'm not sure I have total mastery of them yet...

This story is set after the events of "The Fire Ships" but before Archie's return and HH's promotion in "The Duchess and the Devil".

And though it goes without saying in any of my works, this is also certified slash-free.

* * *

"Marines, to me! Fall back!"

A failure, this was - a cold, hard, miserable failure born of good intentions and the promise of an easy, much-needed victory. But of course, he should have known that such simple odds would not remain so, for Fate had her wiling ways and certainly would never allow an "easy" mission to be exactly that. He, decorated Captain of the _Indefatigable_ , should have foreseen the lack of resistant forces as he had led the small raiding party inland to attack the outpost and acted more swiftly upon the creeping apprehension that had grown with every step.

Now, watching his misguided comrades fall like toppled toy soldiers around him as the early morning light was set afire with pistol shot from all directions, Captain Pellew cursed. He cursed the war, the rebel Frenchmen that had so senselessly begun it, but above all else, he cursed himself. The responsibility would lie on his shoulders alone for sacrificing in vain such good seamen, but more intimately, more painfully was the realization that on his conscience alone lay the burden of knowing that such an unnecessary engagement could very well cost him the life of his most promising (acting) lieutenant. Such a burden, he realized as the smoke left from the marines' latest volley hung choking and thick in the air, he could not find it within himself to bare. To have such proverbial blood on his hands - a lad who had become as dear to him as his own, perhaps even more so - would render his soul more deeply than the loss of any other of his crew they had been forced to leap over in their retreat.

Retreat; damn, he despised the word...

A glance to his left caught the young man in question, curly ringlets of dark hair bouncing violently as the lad swung his head around to face the battle cries of the last Frenchmen that Death had not yet discovered, sword poised to engage the enemy despite their desperate retreat to the shoreline and the boats that awaited them there. The sight of the boy - for the elder man could see him as nothing else despite the lad's conduct demanding a more mature title - sprinting on gangling limbs, eyes wild from combat as his gaze remained locked in the direction of their backs, cemented the hard lump that was caught painfully in Pellew's throat; they were getting younger and younger, these new officers... Or perhaps it was that he was getting older; older and certainly more rash, it would seem.

Bobbing quietly in the harbor, Pellew caught sight of the _Indefatigable_ resting serenely on calm waters as if to taunt its captain of the blundering error that had been this entire mission. Perhaps it would have been chastening enough for the remaining shore party to escape to the jolly boats and row like madmen toward friendlier ports, for Pellew to see the dwindled numbers of his crewmen scramble onto the welcoming decks of the _Indy_ for the surgeon to patch up and send on their way while he locked himself away in his cabin in self-imprisonment to contemplate his rash stupidity; perhaps, in another life, his own guilty conscience would have been punishment enough.

Yet unfortunately, Fate had decided - true to her cruel form - that such an outcome was not lesson enough for poor Captain Pellew. It was only when their boot tips had touched sandy ground at last that time itself instantly slowed to a standstill when, before his very eyes, Sir Edward watched as a cursed French hat sprang up from within the shrubbery. The hat was followed by its enraged wearer, who - apparently deciding self-sacrifice would serve better than disgrace - then stood tall and aimed pistol squarely at the breast of the Captain's jacket.

The sound of the two shots echoed against the harbor's shale cliff walls, causing several white seabirds resting on its ledges to scare and take flight; one, meant with deadly intent for the Captain of the _Indefatigable_ ,was intercepted by a blue blur which sprang in front of the man with a cry of his name and with such speed that Pellew himself was momentarily dazed by its swiftness. The other shot met the Frenchman with ruthless accuracy only an instant later, fired by a quick-witted crewman who had witnessed the promptness of his commanding lieutenant's reflexes as the lad threw himself bodily before their distracted leader. Both French and Englishman fell upon impact, one mercifully dead in an instant, the other folding bonelessly into the arms of the man whose life he had just spared, immediately leaving the white expanse of the man's shirtfront stained a damning crimson.

For what was but a mere moment yet felt like eternity itself, Pellew stared dumbstruck at limp frame of Horatio Hornblower dangling lifelessly in his arms, the elder man's knees buckling ever-so-slightly under the surprising weight of the lad; his feverishly calculating mind having ground to a sickening halt in confusion as the turn of events suddenly sped ahead without him. One moment the boy had been sprinting at his side, very much alive and kicking up sand in their retreat to the shore, the next lay folded in his captain's arms as though dead; as if to affirm the grave state in which Hornblower was in, the moment he bent to set the young man down on the ground, the arms of his jacket came away soaked in the lad's blood. Whatever breath Pellew had inhaled caught painfully in his chest as the realization finally dawned on him as he stared owlishly at his arms, his mind at last racing ahead to meet with the present time.

The boy had just taken a ball for him.

It was then - as Sir Edward's mind reeled in poorly concealed despair, desperately trying to grasp the reality of the situation before him now that the obvious was apparent - that a rough, calloused hand appeared on his arm, grounding yet surprisingly gentle. The compassionate, understanding expression of Matthews appeared suddenly in Pellew's fogging vision, a settling presence in the violent sea of chaos the man felt he was beginning to drown in, the crewman's gray curls bobbing as he bellowed above the din of returning French fire - pitifully few yet remaining just as deadly as before.

"Ah'll take 'im, sir! We must get to the boats!"

As the loyal seaman knelt to lift the limp body of the lieutenant from the sand, an alarmingly large pool of blood already marking where the lad had rested, Sir Edward suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to protect the boy, to fend away any hand that might be laid upon him - friend or foe - except for his own when upon being hauled to his feet the lad let out a strangled outcry of pain. Matthews' face twisted guiltily at sound of the lad's cries when he attempted to hoist the taller man up and bare him on his smaller yet bulkier frame, sympathy shining in his kind gray eyes as he dipped his head in acquiescence when the Captain barked a harshly unnecessary warning at seeing Hornblower's head loll back with a weaker moan. Pellew had felt his gut wrench in self-loathing when his spirits had soared momentarily as he heard the lad's tortured shout, for it signaled the boy was very much alive - though he knew as Hornblower finally bowed his head and relinquished consciousness that in doing so Providence was sparing the lad much suffering.

With nary a sound of protest, Matthews gratefully relinquished some of his burden to the Captain's proffered arm, acutely aware as they trotted as quickly as they could muster themselves to join rest of the crew already readying the longboats that his commanding officer had grown so pale in the last few moments that it almost seemed as though he were the one who was wounded. The thought troubled the seaman for a moment, but one glance at Pellew's face - darkened in fierce determination and with the effort of restrained, grievous fury - softened his fears.

One thing was for certain, Matthews knew. If their beloved Hornblower were to at last run aground of Lady Luck's favor, there would be damnation for the Frogs to pay; Sir Edward Pellew would certainly see to that...

Yet all that seemed to concern the Captain now as they piled into the boats, oars digging deeply into the surf as soon as the last boot heel had landed inside and as the sea swept them away to rid themselves at long last of their French menaces, was the state of their Mr. Hornblower; for though he said nary a word upon taking up residence aside the tiller, Pellew's gaze never wavered from the young man whose unconscious form had been passed along to Styles - where upon the lad was leaning quite heavily. In the maddened interim, some seaman had the good sense to press a discarded shirt against the wound, but all aboard the jolly boat were disheartened to see that the garment was soon soaked through with frightening speed.

Styles, feeling the fiery glare of his Captain upon him when he was shifted in his seat by the surf, causing a pitiful whimper to escape from the wild curls that lay against his shoulder, found himself murmuring soothing words to the young man in spite of his pride - more for the benefit of the elder man watching him in protective judgement than the lad who in all probability could not

hear nor appreciate them. He could not halt the fear borne of loyalty to his commanding officer from bubbling up from within his chest as he studied the depth of Hornblower's wound. Being at sea since he was but a boy did not help the crewman's positivity, for he had seen many good men die within moments from injuries less severe than this; but their Mr. Hornblower was a strong man, a determined man. If any such officer could pull through this, it would be him - of that Styles had no doubts.

Luckily for the crewmen that remained and the man that captained them, the mad dash for the safe berths of the _Indefatigable_ was not an overtly long one. As they reached the welcome sides of the frigate, oars raised high as they were surrendered at last, all thoughts of self-preservation were lost on the men, whose sole concern was helping their valiant lieutenant reach the deck as quickly and painlessly as possible. The Captain was the first to vault over the railing, boots barely meeting the deck before his voice was heard at full range, his deep bellows commanding the surgeon be roused at once.

First Lieutenant Bracegirdle had taken up residence on the quarter deck shortly after the shore party had disembarked, his skeptical nature reaffirmed when the sound of weapons fire had brought his senses to strict attention. Shackled by his duty to the ship and becalmed by the _Indy's_ un-maneuverable nature, he had been forced to watch his crew mates' retreat helplessly, unable to offer any aid. Now, he galloped down the steep stairs of the uppermost deck to meet his captain's advance, immediately relieved to see that the man appeared to be uninjured; yet one look at Pellew's face - unusually pale yet flushed with obvious exertion and telltale emotion - and his wildly desperate gaze told the man that something was gravely wrong, more so than the apparent failure of their mission. He dared not think -

It was at that moment that Bracegirdle's eyes were drawn to the glaring expanse of crimson that stained the Captain's shirt, blood obviously not his own. Sickening dread immediately settled in the pit of the man's stomach.

The deck was suddenly alight with activity as the rest of the men piled onto the deck in giddy relief, each helping bare Hornblower's lifeless weight cradled in a canvas sheet over the railings and into the safe arms of the _Indefatigable_. Hepplewhite, having been successfully roused, was soon pushing his way through the growing crowd to intercept Matthews and Styles, each with one of the Acting-Lieutenant's dangling arms slung over a shoulder. The remaining crew hung back to mutter amongst themselves in worried knots, watching as their crew mates bore the officer to the sick bay with the doctor clearing a path in its direction. Bracegirdle opened his mouth to voice the obvious questions his duty required he ask, only to be cut off as Pellew turned to him, dark eyes silently pleading for the understanding that only his closed officer could give, and then turned smartly on heel - cloak billowing around him as he spun - and followed the lad below.

Bracegirdle could only pray that, not only for the boy's sake - for he valued him very highly and would be grieved at his loss - but also for the sake of his Captain, that Providence would spare the lad's life.

It was never a Right thing in this mortal plane for a father to have to bury his child...


	2. Chapter II: A Forlorn Hope

First Lieutenant Bracegirdle stood to lean against the railings of the gun deck, pausing in his stroll along its length to peer over the sides of the _Indy_ as its bow cut deeply through the swelling gray waters. Salty spray from the churning waves rose up to dampen his cold-nipped cheeks as though to confirm the suspicions his aching bones brought; a hearty gust of bitingly cold wind whipping the cloak he had donned only moments before around his heels. Squinting up at the gray clouds roiling above him, the man gave the tiniest hint of a shiver. Damn his never-failing intuition!

The last thing this ship and its crew needed now was a storm to weather...

It was with a cautious glance to his left that he caught sight of the Captain, the deteriorating conditions of the weather entirely lost on the man as he continued pacing the quarterdeck. As Bracegirdle took in the unusual sight, he was struck with the realization that he must include his commanding officer among those discomposed by the unfortunate circumstances they faced. Head bent low and arms clasped behind his back, face a stormy mask that matched the increasingly roiling clouds above their heads and the dark angry swells of the sea beneath them, the unflappable Captain Pellew looked as though he faced the most trying moment of his command; the tapping rhythm being marched upon the uppermost deck by her commander - which was driving his First to consider confiscating someone's grog ration in order to stand it - had begun the moment the ship's surgeon had lost all patience and respectfully threw the man out of the sick bay.

Glancing around the gun deck of the ship, Bracegirdle was suddenly struck with the realization that the Captain was not the only one who wandered about with an air of dark gloom about them, for the entire crew milled about their work with thoughts of the Acting-Lieutenant's fate preying on their minds. Bracegirdle could not help but be warmed by the loyalty with which the men of the _Indefatigable_ regarded their newest Lieutenant, to all be so equally disheartened at his misfortunes. The boy's fate had surely brightened since his time on _Justinian_ , Bracegirdle mused to himself with satisfaction. Yet was it Fate alone or the Captain of the Indefatigable who was responsible for the lad's glowing improvements? Watching said Captain's eyes close briefly every time the pained cries had floated from the sick berth onto the main deck, it was not difficult to deduce the answer.

Lieutenant Bracegirdle was no one's fool; Sir Edward was no stranger to the hardships a Naval officer often faced, much less the grief caused by the loss of good men. But never, in all the time that his First had served under his command, had Pellew reacted so deeply to the injures of an officer, no matter how grave.

Nor had he vehemently refused to leave an officer in the capable care of their ship's surgeon; or been kicked out of the sick bay by said surgeon when his stubbornness and ham-handedness in such medical matters became too much to bear.

As Bracegirdle looked out over the white-capped swells bobbing on the horizon - his keen hearing still aware of the staccato rhythm of the Captain's boot heels wearing a groove in the wood - he knew what the man needed most was a steadying presence at his side. Surely the current silence from the sick bay was driving the man mad, as it was for all other men aboard the _Indy_ \- including his own self.

So, it was that Bracegirdle mounted the steep stairs to the quarterdeck, intent on distracting his commanding officer from his maddening pacing – for the sake of the First's own sanity if not that of the crew. Deciding on a more invasive approach, the man settled his wide girth directly in the Captain's path, forcing the man to either halt his manic steps for a blessed moment or create a new path around him. Pellew, upon noting his ascent and subsequent settling at his side, decided that it would require too much of his efforts to start anew and turned on heel to stand next to his First, their eyes both surveying the decks and the men below them. Hands still tightly clasped behind his back, so tightly in fact that Bracegirdle noticed with alarm that the knuckles were paling considerably, Pellew bounced ever-so-slightly on his heels with quick sniff then titled his head to lay a dark gaze upon the man next to him.

"Report, if you please, Mr. Bracegirdle."

"Wind remains strong from the Northeast, Sir. No sign of any French ships," the First Lieutenant replied crisply, finding his back straightening subconsciously at the scrutiny.

"Though I don't much like the look of these skies. A storm's brewing, for certain," he added, almost as though he were thinking aloud.

Pellew's dark eyes narrowed at his addendum, and as if to give authority to Bracegirdle's prophecies, the bitter wind chose that very moment to leap suddenly unto the upper deck to unsettle the Captain's cloak. As it whipped their outer garments into a frenzy, Bracegirdle caught sight of the substantial stain that remained upon the man's shirt, its bright red appearance having been dulled to a deep auburn color. _Surely a mark on the Captain's conscience, no doubt,_ Bracegirdle mused sympathetically. Should the lad happen to perish from his wounds… He dared not think of the consequences such a terrible fate would have on his captain.

Unable to decide where he might begin to attempt an easing of the Captain's anxieties, a harried young voice shouting over the din of the wind whipping upon the rigging and the sound of leaping surf saved the First Lieutenant from franticly searching for acceptable platitudes. Pellew immediately started at the sound, hands shooting forward to grasp the carved railings of the quarterdeck as though more to steady himself than lean forward to catch the lad's next words.

A surgeon's attendant sprinted to them now, white apron donned over his clothes dirty with the stains of old blood - whose Bracegirdle did not dare to guess. The lad gasped for breath as though he had galloped the entire length of the ship to reach them, causing his anxiously impatient Captain to bark harshly at him when the man was not more speedily forthcoming.

"What is it, man? Speak up, dammit!"

"Doctor Hepplewhite wishes to see you, sir," the lad strained out between greedy gulps of air.

Barely had the words passed his lips before the Captain galloped down the steep stairs of the quarterdeck, entirely surprising the messenger at the sudden expediency of his movements. Striding past him with nary a word of acknowledgement, the Captain left the young man to trot obediently to his side, confused into a similar silence by the Captain's strange urgency.

Bracegirdle, left alone to command the quarterdeck once more, let a deep sigh heave from his chest and mingle with the gradually increasing howls of the wind. Whatever the Doctor wanted, the man prayed to a deity within hearing distance that the medical man had only good things to tell his Captain; he dared not think of the consequences should the man have different news.

It was then, in the distance, that the first rumbles of thunder reached his ears.

* * *

"I have performed the procedure and successfully removed the bullet. He is resting now."

It was plain by the immediate sagging of the Captain's shoulders, despite being hidden as they were in his cloak, that Doctor Hepplewhite's news was indeed a relief to the man. Yet Pellew still eyed the Doctor skeptically when the man added no further comment and subsequently found the lamp swinging with the rolling waves of the growing storm captivating; such obvious omissions in the Doctor's report were caught instantly by the Captain's quick ear.

"Can nothing else be done for him," the Captain asked as he cast a concerned eye in the lad's direction, the deepened lines of worry creasing his brow not lost on the surgeon's keen discernment.

Hepplewhite swallowed thickly, knowing that despite the obvious rapport that hung tangibly between the man standing before him and the lad lying pale and still on the bunk, Pellew was still Captain of the _Indefatigable_ ; he would never wish for the blows of truth to be softened, no matter the circumstances or how painful such truth might be. He cleared his throat, bringing his arms to be clasped behind him as he cast a sympathetic gaze toward Hornblower's prone form.

"If fever does not take him during the coming nights, I suspect he should recover."

There, it had been said.

Turning back to his commanding officer with a last saddened gaze towards his patient, the Doctor was surprised by the pallor of Sir Edward's face at the gravity of his words, unaware that such news would upset him so. Yet upon seeing his grief had been discovered by the Doctor's penetrating gaze, Pellew straightened to his full height with a composing sniff, his next words spoken with more similar a tone to that of a ship's captain than that of a worried father. A helpless gesture to compose himself, the surgeon knew, but paid it no mind for the sake of the man's pride; a captain had an image to maintain, after all.

"I take it he will require constant care these next few hours?"

"Indeed, perhaps even longer than that," the Doctor agreed, his mind steering back to times where such wounded men had flung themselves violently about their bunks as the fevers claimed their senses. For the young man's sake and the sake of his Captain, he hoped that Hornblower would be spared such tortures. "I must attend to the other men, but I will be back to check on him shortly."

"Then I will stay with him in your absence, Doctor."

Having turned to pass through the threshold of the suite and onward to his patients waiting in the sick bay, Sir Edward's uncharacteristic suggestion caused the surgeon to pivot on heel and fix his commanding officer with an incredulously surprised expression. What a marvelous suggestion! Never had the surgeon in all his years at sea witnessed a commanding officer, a _captain,_ play nursemaid to his juniors. The thing just was simply not done. Most commanding officers' pride would be too great to allow stooping to undertake such a menial task. Yet the dark eyes boring into his own - daring him to question the motivations of such an offer - immediately sobered the man. Pellew owed the young man a debt – a great one. Would he not wish to do the same for a man who saved _his_ life? Hepplewhite's gaze softened then.

An appraising glance at the Captain's appearance - his eyes roving to the unchanged shirt which remained stained with another's blood, the bicorn hat listing slightly over disheveled dark hair, and the air of weary resignation about him - told Hepplewhite that the man, in all good sense, should be taking his leave for some warm food and his bunk instead of sitting up to nurse a dying crewman. Perhaps it was the growing lateness of the hour, or the increased rolling of the ship as it encountered the first towering swells of the storm that gave the surgeon the resolve to challenge the Captain's offer.

"That won't be necessary, sir. One of the attendants can see to his needs."

A diplomatic approach always worked well with Pellew. If the lad were to die, there would be no sense in his Captain following behind him purely out of self-deprecation.

Sir Edward's frown lines deepened at having his decisions waved away in such a manner - for he never gave them in flippancy - setting a livid glare upon the Doctor as he barked crisply, "That's an order, Doctor! See to my men. I will stay."

Not willing to hesitate at an order from his commander, seeing perhaps too well the man's obvious need to be present with the lad that meant so much to him, Hepplewhite merely inclined his head in acquiescence and left the man to his vigil without another word. As he left, the desire overcame to look back and see what the Captain was doing bustling around the surgery suite, but he stopped himself; to intrude on his Captain's privacy – something the man cherished dearly – would be unfair, if not unkind. Perhaps the man only wished to be alone with his officer for a few moments, especially with the lad's mortality hanging so delicately in the balance.

Pellew hid his fondness for the lad so badly; both common seaman and officer alike knew how he cared for the lad as though the boy were his own. Should the coming fevers claim the young man, at least the Sir Edward would have been given the opportunity to wish Hornblower a farewell.

But had he acted upon those curious impulses, the Doctor would have witnessed the Captain bend over Hornblower's still form in the dim light of the swinging lamp, cloak removed from around his shoulders and draped with impossible gentleness over the shivering lad. With a slight scraping sound, Hepplewhite would have seen Pellew pull one of his rickety wooden chairs close to the boy's bedside and settle into it with an audibly heavy sigh betraying his fatigue. And as the shadows from the lamp played a dramatic contrast against the far wall, an arm would have been seen reaching out to pat the lad's covered one comfortingly though Hornblower could not sense the gesture.

The soothing murmurs never reached the Doctor's ears as he made his way to the other patients, the winds from the storm above them drowning out such soft sounds. But Hepplewhite did not need such confirmations to have complete faith in his captain's watchful eye.

The boy was in the best of care.


End file.
